After the sudden return of Thread, W'rin is quick to fill the Weyrsecond spot.

When

Two days after the Keroon Disaster

Where

Igen Weyr

Council ChambersHowever disheveled the corridor outside might lie, THIS room - the sole dominion of the Weyr's upper elite - is always sparkling, ever swept, ever dusted, its walls scrubbed free of the grime of ages. A certain spartan grandeur fills the Council Chamber, with its foreboding stonework and heavy wooden door. A round table fills the bulk of the space, an ancient creation of fire-hardened wood, carved with the three dune'd symbol of Igen Weyr. Chairs surround: hard-backed things (with thin cushions) for the most part, but two grandiose chairs, on opposite sides of the table, that seat Weyrwoman and Weyrleader. The walls are lined with elegant old tapestries, depicting scenes of ancient Igen glories.

It is has been a day and a half since Keroon's surprise threadfall, and three days since the previous weyrsecond had his knot officially removed. W'rin has been buried extra deep in work. Between checking on his own injured riders and screaming at (or consulting with) starcrafters (who have yet to be able to explain what happened) there has been little time to do his normal stuff. And so he's tucked himself away inside the council chambers and between meetings has been filling out hidework. At the moment though, he has set out two whiskeys, one at the chair closest round the side of the table, and one clutched in his hand as he waits for his next appointment to arrive.

Summonsed by no less than the Weyrleader himself, a scant day or so later, does not bode well. Not by the brownrider's reckoning in any event. Especially not given that he'd arrived late into the fray and with none other than the Istan fighting wings. Ah well. Nothing for it but to brace for impact and take it on the chin. Soldier up and all that blarney. He'd gotten lost. Again. Of course. Which probably puts Cha'el around ten minutes passed the appointed time. But eventually he's where he should be and knocking a sharp rap of knuckles to the door standing ajar. "Sir," W'rin at The Pits, Sir Kick-your-butt now. Or so he assumes. "You wanted to see me?" His beard is gone leaving a rather startling swathe of pale skin beneath the slowly fading red of ashburn down the one side of his face.

W'rin is by no means amused by the fact that Cha'el is late, but given that time is sort of hit or miss anything less than a candlemark can't really be chided, and so as he looks up at the banging on the door, he only offers a nod. "Wingrider Cha'el. Have a seat." His head now motioning to the empy chair where the drink is already set. His voice, his face, his expression, no betrayal of any emotion one way or the other about the man, his injury, or the present meeting. "I have a few questions."

The chair is eyed, the drink more so. One last before the flaming squad. At least the man has taste. Angling his path inward, the seat indicated is taken, the drink left where it is for the time being. Questions? Uh oh. Cha'el knew it would bite him in the arse at some point. Just hadn't thought it would be so soon. Lines are rehearsed in his head - Well see, there was this goldrider, bit of a predator you could say who had this weyrmate that… "Yes, sir." Here we go then.

"You weren't with Arroyo during the fall." More of a statement from the weyrleader than a judgment, it was chaos, people flew where they could. "But you were a wing…" Clearly, a finger juts towards the burn on the man's face. "Tell me. Analyze the fall. What went well where you were, what should have changed." A random strategy test. One hand slaps against his beard and pulls as he twirls the whiskey in the glass, his eyes steady on the brownrider before him.

"No sir, I was paying my respects at the time the call went out." To whom, Cha'el keeps to himself. Business. Pleasure. Two separate entities. "Slotted into Arroyo just before K'vvan switched out." A faint edge of pride brackets his baritone. There and gone again. "He and Nadeeth did well. Kept a level head. Kept it tight." In short, clipped sentences, the brownrider delivers his assessment. The cool and clinical tone of voice and composure of features, a by-product of the dragon listening in with intent interest, feeding opinion, analyzing, debriefing. "Wind shifted. A green zigged when it shoulda zagged. Got a face full of ash. Need more browns up front in high winds to slipstream the smaller colors." And then he takes a pause and fits W'rin with an intent look. "Arroyo can work. Is working. We're faster and more agile than the heavier wings. Trek's got the right of it."

W'rin jots down brief notes on the hide in front of him. "That wasn't the question." Is W'rin's comment, apart from the idea he's actually writing down what the brownrider said. "I didn't even realize you managed to get up with them." His jaw clinches as he studies the man again, "I have no problem with green or blue riders. Ever rider is necessary, every color has a purpose. I think they can be intelligent and lead in their own way. I think bronzerider who don't have rank can lead in their own way. I also think they can be dumb as fuck." His fingers rack through his beard, "I don't think greens, and blues really, should be wingleaders or seconds is entirely about strategy." Which gives no explanation as to why he allowed the sudden shift in wings. "Its about being able to fly an entire thread. Sure it can work, but that doesn't mean its the best strategy." He grumbles heavily his mind having flickered away from politics into pure theory - his favorite state of mind. Wing formations. "But it doesn't matter now. Thread is back. No time to switch. There isn't an option now. You see. She has to make it work. WE have to make it work." The we directed at the man, but without an explanation. "Tell me, Cha'el. If you had rank. What would you do. And none of this 'I'd change people's attitudes bullshit'. Make it practical. Tell me how you'd do whatever it is."

Sikorth is practically doing flik-flaks in the back of Cha'el's mind. Wing formations. Patterns. Puzzles. Strategies. This is what he was shelled for!! At several points, the bastard brown shoves in with an opinion. All but bellowing his demand to be heard but each time, he's given the command to hold! And so it is that Cha'el remains silent throughout, until it lingers passed the end of W'rin putting a direct demand to here his opinion. It comes in one succinct acronym. "FIFO." Shifting in his seat, the brownrider inhales and adds to it. "What happened at the Gather was a clusterfuck of note," blunt. "Somehow the starsmiths fucked up. Laying blame isn't gonna change the reality of what we're facing. Thread is here and we don't have time to pussyfoot around fragile egos or pander to entitlement whores. Our approach needs to hard-lined toward survival. A solid front presented at all times. Everyone, from the Holds down to the refugees need to get with the program. Anyone that don't like it, can fuck off." W'rin asked. He's answered.

He did ask for it. And W'rin did get his answer. The weyrleader's chair is thrown back by his massive frame as he suddenly jolts himself to his feet. It clatters to the ground as his fists pound into the table and he leans his wait on them. His eyes narrow at the man for a long cold moment, before one hand reaches into his pocket and slams back down against the table, the know of the weyrsecond trapped beneath it. "Two things. One: Don't take this if you don't respect and trust me. Two: Don't take this if you aren't ready to call me on shit. The two aren't exclusive. I expect the first. I'm not an easy man to work for, Cha'el, but I could use a man like you, at my right." The hand releases the knot and it sits on the table between them. "You want to come over to Whirlwind and help me make sure our home survives?"

W'rin sends his chair skittering onto its arse and rather than shrink away Cha'el comes to his feet, shoulders setting and reddened features tightening, ready to defend his opinion and his noggin if the other man should decide to take a swing at him. He didn't get those scars on his knuckles from playing tic-tac-toe. Deep ocean blues meet brown. Unflinching. The slam of hand to table narrows the brownrider's regard but he doesn't drop his gaze. Not until the Weyrleader smacks him upside the head with a string of words that throw everything arse over kettle. WTF!? Blink? Huh? Cha'el's frame remains stiff though it's now strung with total bemusement, demonstrated in the lift of hand to scrub at a beard no longer there. The knot is eyed, the fancy strands instantly recognized, the consequences thereof. Mind is boggled. "Why me?" Not a simpering attempt to have his ego stroked. He's genuinely sideswiped.

Is the bear of a man amused by Cha'el's meeting of what is perceived as a challenge, if the slight curl of W'rin's lips upward is any indication - perhaps a little. The question draws a snort. Compliments are not something the weyrleader does, if he isn't yelling at someone they are doing well. "Solid rider. An understanding of at least basic strategy - perhaps more potential, too early to see. But that's my area anyway. A no nonsense attitude about survival. You don't give a fuck about politics. Though I'm sure Sadaiya will hate I picked someone to much like me in that particular regard. You appear to recognize what we do is bound by duty and not something we get out of it, including power. And perhaps most importantly, you have struck me as an intelligent man who can disagree with someone without writing them off as an idiot. I don't want someone to agree with me, just because I'm the Weyrleader, at the same time, I need someone who recognizes in the end - it is my decision. It has to be… And you don't have your head up your own ass." The last one gets a head tilt as he considers the man.

At least he's got stunned look off his face somewhere around halfway into W'rin's reply. Dark brows, however, are drawn about a frown of indeterminate origins. Without comment, Cha'el lifts an index finger in a staying gesture, takes up the glass of whiskey he'd not yet touched and tosses the whole damn lot straight down the hatch. "Fuck" cue the short cough as the stuff burns down his gullet and into his chest. Wheezy baritone, "You're being serious." Watery eyes. "You're going to need to start keeping rum in here. And not the swill they serve in the Bazaar. The good stuff. Outta Ista." So that's a 'Yes' then? Wiping his forearm across his eyes, Cha'el takes up the knot; fingers toying with the loops and strands and then closing his fist about it, fits W'rin with an intent look. "I'm not gonna wear tights."

"I'll give on the tights. But the ladies love 'em. …" W'rin draws off as he lifts his shoulders in a hefty shrug and his eyebrows life in a 'you-know-what-I'm-sayin'' sort of way, "But if you want Ista Rum, you gotta talk to the headwoman, she'll keep you stocked." Jabbing a finger to the small bar that he keeps stocked. "There's some shit in there I serve Holders, good stuff goes in the back." Baring his teeth in a non-oft used smile, but only a flash of it he sets his canines to grinding. "Well good then. I'll inform Trek you're switching to Whirlwind. Your first assignment…help me figure out how to shift the wings. We damn near lost enough riders to be a whole shift of thread, but Trek needs more browns - and I just stole one. Sandblast was probably the hardest hit, at least in one color, maybe we can shift around there. Draw up some ideas - we'll meet after dinner to discuss. You'll be at the wingleaders meeting to now, three times a sevenday, just after lunch." His head nods towards the door, Cha'el is dismissed. The weyrleader starts to drop himself into his chair again, but stops half way, "And, er…Thank you." Brows pull as he inclines his head to the brownrider.

The ladies love 'em. Snort. "Not as much as they love leather." Aheh. Close attention is paid to where the booze is kept and how to go about ensuring a steady supply of his beloved beverage of choice. Because that there's important! shit. Shifting wings, reassigning riders due to riders lost and severely injured. Brows draw heavier toward one another, the weight of the knot he's just taken on already weighing heavily. Shit just got real. "Yes, sir." Quiet, still frowning as reality sets in. There's a salute somewhere between his path from table to door but its something vaguely sketched beginning before it forms fully. "Thank you…" returned, tone and expression sober. "For trusting us with this." The knot allowed to dangle between his fingers and then slipped into a pocket, Cha'el turns and is gone. Mind. Blown. Dragon blaring a loud fanfare of triumph that threatens to give him a headache of note.